


I'll Bleed, Babe

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (kind of? no one dies. everything is fine.), (sorta) - Freeform, (that last one is a sorta but i'm tagging anyway in case), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Autumn, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Fluff, Group Hugs, Guilt, Halloween, Happy Ending, Heartache, Heartfelt Conversations, Hugs, M/M, Nightmares, Nogitsune Trauma, Pack, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Possession, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Puppy Piles, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Riddles, Stiles Stilinski Accepts The Bite, Suicide Attempt, Werefox Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: "What?" comes the whisper, dragged out of him, dripping with every exhilarating, stifling, annoying, soft, safe, rescue, hope moment that they have ever spent together."He loves you," it says, splaying one palm over the other atop his heart, face mimicking sincere, "to a ludicrous extent, really. Do you know how many picturesque images of you and he together I had to shove out of the way just to get to where I am now? It waspitiful."It presses forward, slow, and Derek inhales sharply, acutely aware that if he hurts this thing, he'll hurt Stiles.He doesn't even need to question that claim, that this is possession instead of shape-shifting, magic, or illusions. It's residing within a body, surrounded by a scent, that Derek has mapped extensively, memorized, traced and retraced over and over again, secretly, devotedly, he knows Stiles better, he's sure, than he knows himself. And he's never even touched him."He doesn't love me," he mourns, assured, his back foot shifting from toes to flat as he pulls away, crouch-crawl, wary eyes latched, desperate."I could show you," Not-Stiles purrs, "don't you want to see? Don't you want toknow?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allourheroes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allourheroes/gifts).



> [Concept Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/14iVk0PUNen5Yls3HTl8Ya)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, allourheroes!!!!!!!!! And happy halloween!! xoxoxo ❀❀❀
> 
> Trigger Warning :: Kate is a thing that happened to Derek, and, also, the consent at the beginning is _very_ dubious, badwrong, and borders on non-con, tread carefully if this is a worry for you, because it's a theme throughout this _whole_ thing. Things get better though! And we're heading toward a happy ending, I promise, ❀

It's not Stiles.

Derek _knows_ it's not Stiles. He... denying it is senseless, when everyone seems to know already, anyway, that he watches, incapable of helping himself, that he follows in the shadows and prays he might protect this boy with autumn-leaf doe-eyes and chestnut hair, with cinnamon moles on milk-cream skin and a spit-fire quick-wit clever that reminds him of his first love, a youth that reminds him of his second—reminds him he should never, ever touch, destroy, burn. He'll be background, pitch-niches, white-noise, he doesn't mind being berated for it, he doesn't mind, at all, being sniped at for being a creep.

It means no one's noticed the rich, dark, whiskey-burn love strangling his veins, choking his heart, bubbling in his spit, gnawing at the tip of his tongue.

Just like no one's noticed Stiles... _isn't Stiles_.

It's the fifth week since their Pack dealt with the Alphas, the Darach, the _catastrophe_. Everything has, for the most part, settled. Scott is... getting better, with being an Alpha, and he's _good_ , so good that chills of guilt tangle with the nobs of Derek's spine, thinking of Boyd, Erica, Isaac, his failures, his immature, disastrous attempts at playing the part of his mother, his big sister, when he was still mourning, still jagged pieces and restless anguish and so, so much thoughtlessness.

Allison and her father are becoming core members of the Pack, hunters woven in seamlessly, delicately, with friendship and hope and more that is silent and a melancholy kind of beautiful (he apologized to her, for her mother, and she'd told him, _"I'm not going to say I forgive you—Stiles and Scott... they told me what really happened. I know it wasn't your fault, I only thought it was because Gerard, he—"_ she'd shivered, then, smelled of a childish, visceral fear, and, too, of coarse-brine, tear-soaked bravery. _"But I will say **thank you.** Thank you for saying that to me. I'm sorry, too, for the parts my grandfather made me play in everything."_ He hadn't forgiven her, either; he'd said thank you, and hoped she understood. She'd smiled, and the ghost of Kate had slipped poignantly from the piano-wire set of her shoulders). Isaac has moved in with the McCalls, essentially been adopted by Melissa, and is somehow managing a tentative relationship with Allison that doesn't at all jeopardize the Pack dynamics. Lydia is learning what being a Banshee means from Deaton, and finagling every ounce of information she can from the man (they've learned more about druids, magic, nemeta, banshees, _and_ werewolves from her extensive research and lessons ~~interrogation sessions~~ with him in the past month than they have in a year of actually dealing with it face to face. She's a force to be reckoned with, that girl). Peter has... vanished, and Derek has no doubt he's gone somewhere to find a prone Alpha- never to deal with any havoc he caused here, never to face culpability, perhaps, even, to avoid his guilt, if that's even something he's still capable of- and Cora's gone back to Brazil, unable to hold with the place that took her family from her. She offered to put in a word with her Alpha, invited him to her Pack, there, and as much as he will suffer for missing her, he'd refused.

He needs to be here, in Beacon Hills, his graveyard, his sins, his home.

Scott, Isaac, and Lydia seem to have somehow offered him blanket forgiveness, for the mistakes he made trying his hand at Alphahood and for trying to kill her and Jackson, both, without a word ever uttered. He's split between relief and writhing anxiety, like watching a falling glass freeze in time, part of him grateful it hasn't shattered, and another screeching, catching, waiting for the shatter-shock sharp-edged sound, the feeling bites into him, incessant, complaining, loud in the way tense-breathless silence is.

Life moves on, the Beacon attracts faeries and witches and wendigos and omegas, they relearn what is normal and bind themselves together with steel-threaded braided bonds, his loft, the veterinary clinic, and the Stilinskis' living room have become Pack communal spaces, utilized for meetings and Pack get-togethers, movie nights, sleep-overs, all with a sense of _family_ that makes Derek's throat tight, the bittersweet tang of fresh citrus cooling on his tongue. And, in the midst of all of this, Stiles stops acting like... _Stiles_.

Soft changes, at first. He starts having these dread-inducing nightmares, and the moment they start getting truly terrified for him- the bags under his eyes, sickly pallor to his skin, and the confession that, sometimes, he can't tell whether or not he's actually awake- it just stops. Pause, mute, over and done and he's fine just like that, unaffected and nonchalant. His smile begins to look dissonant, _wrong_ , eery when matched with eyes normally overflowing with vivid life gone blank, _dead_. It gets worse, then: he starts caring just a little bit less about the others getting hurt—Stiles, _Stiles_ , who avoided telling his father about this world with bloody-knuckled tenacity because he wanted to protect him, who would die for, kill for, live for Scott, for any of them, and, because of—because of _something_ Derek may never be able to understand, he is loyal to them, to this entire, ragged, rugged, beat up Pack. A selfless, debilitating, overwhelming kind of loyalty that is caustic and jaded in the face of intruders, perceptive, over-protective, wild and frenetic.

The same Stiles who rants and raves and cooks unreasonably large, exceptionally good, incredibly healthy meals for _all_ of them, his father no longer the only one falling under the umbrella of Stiles' _"I want you to live for as long as I can have you, and I will do anything to attain that end,"_ kind of love. The same one who freaks out over _werewolves_ \- who can _heal_ \- getting a paper cut, skinned knee, broken arm, bullet hole.

He remembers, spoken softly, concerned complexity in the infinite honey-melt gooey texture of his irises, "Don't be such a martyr, you idiot. Pain is..." a scoffed laugh, slight shake of his head. _"Painful_. Maybe it's healed, now, but it was still painful." He'd looked tired and shaky that day, he'd been quiet enough for Derek to flash back to every single time he'd ever told the boy to shut up and hate himself for it, because Stiles _listening_ to that request, being so small and friable in the eternal quiet, hurt beyond reasoning, and, to Derek, was an anguish far more saturated in reality than having played chew-toy for a lamia.

That same Stiles, a week later, stood back and watched both Isaac and Scott get _critical_ wounds from a horde of creepy, feral, infant-stealing garden gnomes, without batting an eye. No sardonic joke about the creatures they were dealing with, no increased heartrate or scent twisting, wrenching from that resting, rain soaking loam and moss and fallen leaves rich-soil scent to sea-waves crashing, breaking against harsh, rough, mountainous stone as lightning crackles hauntingly in the sky, no brash, half-baked move to remove them from danger even if it puts _him_ in the spotlight. _Nothing_. Eyes remaining mellow, frost-encrusted earth, the susurrus of breath deep and unhindered, unbothered, as he'd watched his packmates fail once, twice, before beating the enemy back to succeed.

That same Stiles comes to his loft, now, alone, gazing at him with lifeless eyes, soul gone concave.

"You've noticed, haven't you?" he asks, all facsimile cadence, simpering-tease tone, as he prowls forward, ill-fitting smirk playing across his lips. Derek doesn't back away as the boy advances, crosses his arms over his chest and tries to stand his ground despite the disquieting pit opening up in his belly. "No one else- I _am_ ever so careful- but _you,"_ he's close enough now to prod a willow-nimble finger at Derek's chest, sing-songing, "you know little red riding hood got **swallowed whole**."

Derek's breath catches (he did, he did know, but the clarity of being face-to-face with it, unmasked, kills him), whispers, wavering, cracking, crumbling, no matter how he fights not to, "You're not Stiles."

The smirk is replaced by a grin that _does not_ make sense on that face, grinds against all memory and knowledge of Stiles, churns out horror and dissonance so visceral Derek chokes on it. "No," it laughs, "I'm not."

"What are you?" He begins, husky with despair, "Why—wh—" his words are halted with a kiss that it hums into, and with a gasp that he did not mean as invitation, the thing in Stiles' skin, bones, slips it's tongue inside, curls its' spidering fingers around Derek's face to hold him in place, an attack so intimate, one that seeps into every stardust fantasy and twists, steals, corrupts, until hazy dreams of waking up with Stiles curled sweetly, safely in his arms as the rising sun paints their naked, unashamed bodies golden and so, so tender-soft are replaced with this sick, disgusted, shiver-shake recoil. Backed into a devastating corner, hackles raised, instinct takes over and before he can stop himself his fangs drop, _bite_ , as he scrambles, shoves.

The acrid wine-copper aroma of blood threads through wilderness rainfall, and, for a moment, Derek is so consumed by hatred for himself that he can barely breathe.

Not-Stiles reels back, wipes liquid rubies from his crushed-pastel lips laughingly, sneeringly, and it hurts, it's a sword point sinking slowly through his chest, to see the one he loves _being this way_. He knows it isn't him, but there isn't any solace in that, there isn't any hope in that, a fissure spreads within his heart, gapes, all soot-ash and discordant gusts of air uncomfortably bloating, it's so fucking hard to breathe.

"You have _no idea,"_ it groans out, sounding _giddy_ , "how fucking good you taste." The wet drag of tongue slides over bruised lips as he- it- saunters forward, eyes glittering for the first time in _weeks_ , but the light within them shatters, a siren song, undefinably bilious. "This body still belongs to Stiles, you know, I'm just... _borrowing_ it."

"What _are_ you?" Derek growls, and he does back up this time, dropping into a defensive stance, letting his wolf flow over him, claws clicking, fangs snapping.

"He loves you, you know," it says, and its' tone of voice skates to close to the one Kate used when she'd call him _sweetie_ , tunnels his vision and shallows his breath and veils his thoughts with creeping fog. His heart skips a beat, his throat tightens, his eyes burn.

"What?" comes the whisper, dragged out of him, dripping with every exhilarating, stifling, annoying, soft, safe, rescue, hope moment that they have ever spent together, a jar of pennies thrown at the floor, coins dancing with razor-glass.

"He loves you," it says, splaying one palm over the other atop his heart, face mimicking sincere, "to a ludicrous extent, really. Do you know how many picturesque images of you and he together I had to shove out of the way just to get to where I am now? It was _pitiful."_ It presses forward, slow, and Derek inhales sharply, acutely aware that if he hurts this thing, he'll hurt Stiles.

He doesn't even need to question that claim, that this is possession instead of shape-shifting, magic, or illusions. It's residing within a body, surrounded by a scent, that Derek has mapped extensively, memorized, traced and retraced over and over again, secretly, devotedly, he knows Stiles better, he's sure, than he knows himself. And he's never even touched him.

"He doesn't love me," he mourns, assured, his back foot shifting from toes to flat as he pulls away, crouch-crawl, wary eyes latched, desperate.

"I could show you," Not-Stiles purrs, "don't you want to see? Don't you want to _know?"_

His heel hits the wall and he swallows. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

It cracks a winsome grin, like acid, it encroaches, steady-slow, the lack of rush a fuckery in itself, like it's a _game_. "Because you love him back—you do, or you wouldn't have noticed, you wouldn't have been _looking."_ It's in front of him, now, folding itself down into a kneel with a kind of playful grace that is so similar, and so different from how Stiles would move. Derek feels helpless, hopeless tears sting his eyes, heart throbbing, _breaking_. It lifts one of Derek's hands, wraps it around a delicate, frangible throat with a malicious, disturbing giggle, presses the tips of his claws into paper-thin skin. He shudders, shallow breath water-clogged and dragging, misty, wavering, tears fall heavy when he squeezes his eyes shut, cringes away, forces his wolf down with a hopeless, resigned, high-pitched whine. "See," it murmurs silkily, "I'm this close, it would be _so easy_ , and you can't do it, can you? Even biting me, such a small, small thing, devastated you."

It cups Derek's jaw, and he whimpers against an aconite-nectar kiss, Stiles' lips, tongue, licking sweetly against his, humming disapproval when he keeps his mouth firmly shut. "You want this as much as he does, and he _does_ want it." A melting pot of emotions soak him, then, strands of delicate thought, of love and supple-give and lust and intense crave, and, mingled with that, something powerful, vicious, protective and sharp, Stiles' body wrapped around his, breathing deep, dreamcatcher, how Scott might react, that dopey-puppy _brother, I am happy for you_ smile, a life spent _growing old_ together—because Stiles will have no less than that, will fight with every ounce of himself _for_ that, for gray hairs and affection and a long, happy life, because that's what Stiles wants:

For Derek to be happy. To be consumed by absolute joy, to smile and laugh and grow, to be strong enough to hold him, to be held _by_ him, all of this diving into technicolor, over-saturated images of Stiles panting, moaning underneath him, of plump lips wrapped around his dick, sucking, a half-bitter regret that he doesn't know the taste, that he _aches_ to, that he'd drown himself in it, before the besotted benedictions are dissolving like sugar in water, swirling, devolving into oily ichor.

Derek opens his eyes, and Stiles' face watches him knowingly, expectantly raised eyebrows, fingertips beneath his jaw angling his face up, making him bear his throat. "What are you?" He repeats, resigned, rasping croak. He feels raw, he feels like he's being drawn in deeper, deeper, into something part of him adamantly shuns, but none of him can refuse.

Stiles, _his_ Stiles, is in there somewhere, loves him so adamantly and voraciously and _immaculately_ that it makes him feel wretched, unworthy, dirty for even contemplating this, for succumbing so fucking easily.

"Nogitsune," it says simply, leaning in so the space between them is damp with hot breath, the static feeling of Derek's body shaking, tears falling. "Kiss me," it orders, "kiss _him._ He's so hungry for you, Derek, didn't you feel it? You are, too," its' voice, Stiles' voice, lifts into a pleading whine that twists around Derek's heart, tugs, _"kiss me."_

Derek makes a wounded, distressed moan as he lunges, bowls them over, finally, _finally_ discovers what Stiles' body feels like pressed sinuously against his, learns the shape of that mouth, the taste of strawberry-tart and bitter-dark, rich, spiced chocolate, a breath escapes him, intrinsically satisfied rumble, and he tries to convince himself, even with unmelting ice stuck, frozen, in his core, even as rivers continue to run down shame-scorched cheeks, that this is Stiles. He tries to imagine Stiles coming to the loft, expressing everything he felt out loud, fervent and vibrant and vivacious, _himself_ , he tries to imagine honeyed-timbre babbling, trying so valiantly, bravely, to convince Derek that just _one date_ can't be that bad, and they don't even have to do anything, they could—

Derek would kiss him, then, capture him mid-gesture and he'd flail a little, before his eyes would flutter closed with a sigh, maybe he'd smile into it, maybe their teeth would click because Derek would be helpless to do anything but smile back. Or maybe it wouldn't be like that at all; it can never _be_ that, now, Derek thinks, his heart clenching as he lifts himself up, over Stiles' prone body, and looks into dead, dead eyes.

"Would it make it easier," the nogitsune asks, cocking Stiles' head clinically, the calculating narrowing of its' eyes causing a blooming sense of deja-vu, driven sharply in alongside crushed, intense longing, "if I played the part of your lover-boy? One-time offer, just to-" its' tongue skates across its' teeth teasingly- "ease you in."

Oh. Oh, what a horrible, horrible gift to receive, to _take._

"Yes," Derek whispers ruggedly, condemning himself, trembling.

Sanguine cinnamon melts into softening syrup, a shuddering breath as it cants Stiles' hips up, flexes fingers against Derek's shoulderblades, and gathers a glowing smile that twinkles, effervescent, angelic, on spit-slick lips. "I love you," he whispers, as if awed; "hey," his hand gentles down Derek's back, nearly soothing, comes up to caress his cheek, and a long, undulating whine reverberates, wrenched from the depths of Derek's soul as he cradles into the touch, his need for this faux-comfort so deep within the seeping cracks of him that it would be impossible to deny it. "Hey, hey, don't cry." Derek lets his forehead fall to Stiles', closes his eyes as tears tumble down helplessly with every quivery breath. "It's okay," cottoncandy colors Stiles' tone, threads it with laughter—the brave-sweet, meaningful kind, so unlike the shallow, corrupt version from before. "We've been through worse, right, big guy?"

Derek huffs out a wet laugh, sniffs, his sick-tense dread stifled for the moment. He knows it's just an act, but it's drawn from something real, it's... it isn't his. It isn't something to have faith in, but it makes it easier—and he loathes himself for that, for all of this, he truly, truly does.

"Why am I doing this?" he begs, prays.

"For me," Stiles answers, velvet rubbed just the right way, "to keep me alive, to keep everyone safe," Derek stills at that, breath hitching, heart thudding dully, throat clicking around a swallow. "The nogitsune's a... a _parasite_. It feeds on chaos, calamity—all the bad stuff. And because it's possessing me, if it's hungry, I'm hungry, if it's starving, I'm starving, if it dies—"

"You die," he breathes, the very idea suffusing him with terror.

"Yes," he agrees, and Derek searches his face, sees something sincere and adoring, a contemplative amicability. He traces the delicate arch of cheekbones, dimples, as Stiles smiles something pretty, compassionate, perfect. It's almost easy to forget, like this, that it's a trick. "And if it can't feed off of you..." he shrugs slightly, "it'll hurt our Pack— _me."_

Lissome legs untuck themselves to wrap around Derek's waist, pulling him flush as Stiles pushes himself up from the floor to steal another kiss, makes it deep and unbridled, like he's digging inside Derek's soul with this, extracting everything he ever is or was, and it would be less invasive, the sanctity of it less hollow if... if any of this was real, if any of this were the truth. The nogitsune is a good actor, but it isn't Stiles, even wearing his skin, nothing, no one, could ever replicate Stiles.

Still, the threats, the horror of them, tumble into the love that thunders restlessly in his heart. The love that the nogitsune showed him Stiles has for him—love he hopes isn't fake, hopes wasn't a trick; it felt so, _so_ real. And with that prayer on his tongue, he doesn't push Stiles' hands away when they slide down to unbutton his jeans, unzipping, stripping, shedding.

It feels dark, even though every light is on and the sun is scorching through the loft, dusty and decrepit. It feels dangerous, like dangling precariously off the edge of a cliff, a centimeter away from an absolute end, and he realizes, only now that it's lost, gone, that, somehow, Stiles was, became, _safety_ to him, a sanctuary, a haven. He wonders when, even as he slides feathering hands underneath cotton and plaid and too many layers, feeling nothing less than a trespasser—he wonders if it began the moment he saw him, or when he nearly drowned for even insinuating that tired muscles had held him up for so goddamned long _conditionally_. He sucks a mark close to Stiles' pulse, just to feel it beating fluidly against his mouth- languorous proof that there is life in this body- eliciting a breathy moan that he questions manically.

Would Stiles really make that noise? move like this? Confidently tugging off the rest of his own clothing before ferociously grasping at Derek's arms, back, bucking up into him bare and carnal with a quiet, needy grunt. How... how can he compare with... he has nothing.

He's so _lost_.

He falls back on something old, numbing, on the physical, on instinct—that, he's used to. He can trust his body to monsters, he trusts his body to himself all the time. He gave it, willingly, submissively, adoringly, to Kate.

It feels good. It can feel good.

Stiles' hands slide down muscles already glistening with sweat, tensing in anticipation, grasp his cock just shy of too tight, fingers experimentally toying with foreskin. He ignores the boldness of the movement, the obvious practice underlying it that's a jarring counter to Stiles' lack thereof, to his _virginity_ , which Derek is—

—It sends a jolt of pleasure tingling through him, hips flinching forward in an almost helpless thrust. The nogitsune makes a delighted noise in the back of its' throat, something so dichotomous with the body it's in and the game they're playing that Derek slams his mouth against it, crushing the sound, morphing it into a strangled moan that keens up into an open, half-pleading gasp when he wraps his hand around himself and Stiles, grinds them together in one dry, strategic stroke.

A breezy, almost intoxicated, lascivious giggle floats up until Derek stymies it with an admonishing, gentle hold, teeth wrapped around his throat iso as to _harmlessly_ cut off sound. In a way, this- a base, animal act, tinted with memories of his mother doing the same to him when he was a pup, and his sister, after the fire- is more intimate than their dicks sliding together, all delicious friction and delicate ecstasy. More important and beautiful and all the more corrupted because of the why—he doesn't want to hear the nogitsune getting drunk off of this, he doesn't want to look at all the evidence telling him this is wrong.

He longs for Stiles, yearns, aches, and this is as close as he can possibly get, this is as safe as he can possibly keep; he knows the price for loving something, that everything he craves and holds dear turns to flakes of ash, slipping in between his fingers. So, if that's already happened, if this is the death and horror he began expecting the moment he gave into this wretched feeling, then at least...

He laves at the indents of blunt, human teeth, pulls back enough to dive head-long into those amberine eyes, the coil of pleasure in his gut tightening, beginning to burn with a demand to be satisfied, an urgency for release, the glide of their rutting thrusts helped along, now, by precum. "I love you," he whispers to the space between them, to whatever glimmer of Stiles might actually be there, listening. "I'm so sorry," he mourns into a shivering, whimpered kiss, as he surrenders himself to his body and his tears, lets magma erupt, muscles convulse as he comes, takes a sharp breath against Stiles' lips, "I love you."

At least he gets to hold him in his arms, at least he gets an illusion, at least, with this, he can maybe keep him alive.

The nogitsune sighs, long and satiated, pats him on the back like a child before rolling him over, back thudding against the sweaty, uncomfortable wooden floor with an anguished gasp, like the very act of parting his body from Stiles' ripped his soul clean out. It gets up, waltzing nude and unashamed to the kitchen to clean their blended cum from Stiles' skin. "That was a good snack," it chimes, chipper, "I hope you know that next time I expect you to fuck me—or I could fuck _you_ , I don't mind. Neither will Stiles, he rather enjoyed our little tryst, and he's quite... versatile."

Derek releases a shuddering breath as his eyes flutter closed, presses his tingle-freeze hands to his face. Everything's _uncomfortable_ , the sweat, cum, the hollow in the pit of his belly and how their scents are mixed in this ingrained, lasting way, but every note that should contain joy or affection is acrid, sour.

He listens to Stiles' feet pace closer, the shifting of clothes, easy breath, callous indifference. "Unless you want to nix our deal? I could always kill the sheriff and let Stiles _watch."_

Derek's skin is burning but his bones are chilled, and there's this nagging taste in his mouth, all charcoal-husk graveyard. He digs his knuckles into his eyes, near painfully, trying to ground himself.

"Oh! Or— _or_ I could—" "I agreed," Derek rasps gravely. "I already agreed."

There's the slap-stick sound of naked soles against sweat-slick wood, coming right next to his ear before stopping. "And how do I know you won't tell, pathetic nithing? How can I be sure you won't ruin my game?"

Derek forces his eyes open, Stiles' body bent at the waist so cold, decaying-leaf eyes can peer down at him. "I don't talk much," he snipes, and the nogitsune grins, all fox-fire mischief.

"Your eyebrows might give it away."

"You're a terrible actor," he decides to mention, for the sake of it, still unmoving from his place, prone and spent on the ground, where the nogitsune is standing above him, shirt in hand and pants already on. "How do I know _you_ won't give it away, or get _bored_ , and decide to slaughter everyone in this town?"

Stiles' fingers reach down, trace the line of his jaw, down his throat, tickling his adam's apple as the nogitsune crouches with a little, pitying moue. Derek struggles not to hold his breath. "Why on earth would I get bored when I have such a _pretty_ meal-ticket? I think you underestimate just how much anguish, rage, grief, fear, _chaos_ you have," fingers tap a playful beat before lifting away, the promise of violence falling impotently flat as the nogitsune sucks those fingers into Stiles' mouth, sultry, covetously thrilling. "You're the most scrumptious meal I've ever encountered Derek Hale, and I have lived a long, long life." 

"I won't say anything," he whispers, ragged, wrung-out, exhausted. "If it will keep him safe, keep our Pack safe, I'll never breathe a word."

A smile creeps across the nogitsune's face, and he watches, motionless, as it leans in to steal another kiss.

"Good doggie."

* * *

"Are you guys dating?" Isaac asks with his eyebrows raised high, and Derek guesses it must be his fault.

Maybe if he'd been a better Alpha, a better... _werewolf teacher_ , or something, their packmates would've noticed how distinctly _Not Stiles_ the nogitsune is—it almost scares him that they can scent the musk and the cum and the intermingling, but none of the curdling, soured edges, none of the friable hopelessness that lingers in the lightning storm shocking all of that foliage and loam, electrifying all the rain, dancing sadistically on the tips of cowering mountains. They don't smell how distant Stiles' aura-scent is, how frozen over, underneath Derek's overcharged, clinging overlay. They don't see how caramel hardens to glass, how muscles shift incorrectly, still when they should fidget, honeyed voice quieting when it should roam, explode.

Poignantly, their eyes and their noses catch on the new social cue, skate past the intricate depth of it, and all he can feel is guilt, because, not only is this another failing culminating in his own downfall, in the downfall of someone he _loves_ , but he could so _easily_ rectify it by _teaching_ them, now that he maybe has a better understanding, better tools.

But he cannot teach them to see through it without undoing the trick, without putting them all in further danger.

He made a deal, and it's killing him, but the nogitsune is standing in the corner, smirking at him with Stiles' mouth, waiting to see what he will do, like a snake waiting in the tall grasses, to strike.

It's easy to maintain his silence, to raise his eyebrows in turn, incline his head, body language implying _isn't it obvious?_ without a single word spoken. No lie told, no skipping heartbeat or increased heartrate, a movement, and he's sealed his fate.

The nogitsune's pleased, cat-ate-the-canary grin is hidden in a mug of hot-cocoa as Scott, cuddled into Kira on the couch, erupts, _"What?_ Bro! Why didn't you tell me?"

Meanwhile Allison sighs and hands a ten dollar bill to Lydia, Kira sheepishly- wincing light-heartedly and apologizing at Scott's look of friendly betrayal- doing the same, and Isaac maintaining the smug superiority of someone who didn't participate in the betting.

"It was a new thing!" Stiles exclaims, shrieking high-pitch, a play on the cataloged idea of embarrassment. "And—and, I dunno! Derek's a private person; I didn't know how much he'd want to share and how soon, you know? It's my first, like, _Big, Serious_ relationship. I can't just start writing sonnets about his bunny-teeth, I need to—I need to—" At which point everyone begins interrupting with clamor, Isaac sardonic, Lydia congratulatory, Kira and Allison cooing over how adorable it is, because it's so _obvious_ Stiles is in love, and Scott begrudgingly understanding not being informed, a split second of pouting more before he's bounding off the couch and dragging everyone into an excited, jumping, group hug, saturated with joy and excitement and unconditional, supportive acceptance.

A successful manipulation, carried through so easily it makes him sick to his stomach.

At the very end of the Pack meeting, the nogitsune licks into his mouth in front of everyone, a progressive display their packmates find endearing, sweet, colored with the nogitsune's pride that he kept their secret well.

He offers up the swirling, soot-ash covered chaos, the conflicting, nauseous spin of his emotions like escorting a witch to the pyre, his sins on an altar. He gives into it, feeds it, and the nogitsune nearly purrs, melting against him.

Incessantly, humming penetratively in his bones, he _misses Stiles_ , tenderly, sorrowfully, utterly.

The Stiles in his arms, laughing with his friends, curled against his chest so openly pleased is... harsh. Too clean. A demon underneath moon-skein. A lifeless painting, a harassing doll.

With every second that passes maintaining this illusion, his heart is slowly _crushed_ , every breath taken with all the ease of atlas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vividly vivid nightmares are a thing, also, a wild ghostly Stiles appears!
> 
> Trigger Warning :: Yet more extreme dub-con, allusions to rape and abuse, and also, an attempted suicide (? _sorta?_ attempted suicide _mission?_ I don't know, no one dies).

People start going missing, turning up dead, posed, always exactly a week after the fact, every body function stopped, inert, with the exception of their tear-ducts.

Crying corpses. A strange, eery, depressing sort of thing, the kind of thing that, if Stiles had any control over his body, he'd be all over. If he had any control of his body, he'd be sticking his head where it didn't belong because his dad's starting to wear thin and the Pack have no answers, Deaton and Lydia have no answers, and he would be incapable of sitting still, of _not caring_ , unlike the parasite residing within him.

The parasite that keeps stealing away to the loft, catching Derek alone, cornering him, using his body to—Stiles tries not to think about it. It takes every ounce of him to crawl out of the living, waking nightmares (memories of his mother, sick, twisted until she isn't just screaming and throwing things, but clawing at his throat, pinning him down, her visage flashing like a glitchy vhs tape, her image corrupted and consumed by soiled strips of cloth, silver teeth, yellow eyes; trapped in a groundhog-day spiral where his Pack, his family, dies, over and over again, and stopping it is on the tip of his tongue, frustratingly, devastatingly out of reach; rotting, necrotic zombies cuddling up to him, cooing at him, telling him _stories_ as they fold their maggot-infested bodies around him, telling him what it was like when the nogitsune lived inside _them_ , how they learned to enjoy it, _love_ it, dried, friable flowers bloom in their eye-sockets, flies swarm, and they tell him he could learn to love it, too), to escape the game of go he's _always_ , always, exhaustively playing in the back of his mind, all white-wash, chemical-bright room, ancient stump, glorified mummy, to find a way to the present for long enough to _see_.

But no matter how horrifying it is to sink back under the nogitsune's complete control- thundering anxieties that maybe, this time, he won't be able to climb back out, won't be able to reclaim awareness again, is _losing_ every goddamn time he turns away from consciousness- when it's with Derek in that way, he can't make himself watch. He _can't_ be present, he...

Crumbling, in his hands, are silken words, soft, _pained_ , "I'm sorry, I love you. I will always love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Over and over again, a pirouette, spinning endlessly.

He wants to return them, he wants to let the man he fell in love with stupidly, surprisingly, quickly, know that it's not his fault—because he _knows_ Derek, and he's predictable in this, in blaming himself ruthlessly for things that are nowhere near his fault. He wants to apologize, bleed, weep, saw off his own hands for what he's done. For what the nogitsune is _making_ him do.

But he's too much of a coward to watch it happen.

To watch himself, _his_ body, _his_ hands, do what he's always _wanted_ , craved, but not... fuck. Not like this.

At the moment, though, there's no fucked up, extremely dubious sexual shit going on, just another monster of the week that the nogitsune is willfully ignoring, even as the sheriff pours himself another cup of whiskey poring over the files, even as his best friend texts asking if he could help research, if he wants to trek the preserve for clues, if he could send photos of the murder board Scott's very confident he already has up.

Stiles looks down at his hands, ticks off ten fingers- _exactly_ ten- just to be sure. He has no control over his body, but he's got control over his... spirit? It always feels like a creepy, dissonant out-of-body experience when he does this. Everything he sees is seen peripherally, felt through white-noise static, underwater, murky sludge.

The only thing he can see clearly is himself, or, well. The nogitsune _acting_ like himself.

『Help them, you already know what it is, you _could_ help them. 』

The nogitsune sighs expansively. "I was so sure I triple-locked that cage of yours, how on earth do you keep getting out?"

There's a rush, like being swept under a particularly strong tide, and the tangy, cold, echo-taste of pennies tingling on his tongue. He closes his eyes, dizzy, but forces himself to open them again before he gets dragged back into his own head. A door opens and shuts and he gets the vague idea that they went from his bedroom in the middle of the night to the school bathroom, early afternoon.

He counts his fingers again, urgently, breathlessly.

Ten.

He takes a deep breath.

『♫This is the song that never ends; it goes on and on my friends! Some people, started singing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because, oh!♫』 He claps his hands, annoyed, exhilarated, determined. 『♫This is—♫』

* * *

『♫—ty-three bottles of beer; take one down, pass it around, forty-two bottles of beer on the wall. Forty-two bottles of beer on the wall, forty-two bottles of beer; take one down—♫』

 _"Enough!"_ It roars. In the middle of a Pack meeting. Stiles sucks his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing as everyone turns to stare solicitously at the monster riding underneath his skin. The nogitsune shoots him a black glare, and Scott and Derek, both, track the line of sight to what, to them, is an empty corner, their faces scrunching up.

Them looking at him, even unwittingly, unknowingly, is enough to floor him, knock the sense of victory right out of his chest and leave him drunk on yearning. God, how pathetic is it that he'd give up everything just to hold his brother's hand? just to have an _actual converstaion_ with Derek?

(But he has no right, no right to want anything with Derek, to speak, touch, crave. Not anymore.)

With a dry-grit growl of frustration the nogitsune stands, paces, tugs Stiles' hair in every direction with restless, frenetic energy. When it speaks, it uses a familiar tone, the same tone Stiles uses to weasel people into getting into trouble with him, to go off on some half-cocked nonsensical plan because he's bored, or he wants to help and is being a brash dumbass about it. But Stiles can't listen to its' long, rambling impersonation, is too caught up in the way Derek rounds the research, map-strewn table to stalk toward his corner, eyes searching manically.

Stiles takes a tentative step forward, reaches past the fragile space between them, but the moment his fingertips graze stubble they crumble to dust. (He knew that would happen, that's what always happens when he tries to touch somebody. He doesn't know why.) His arm slowly begins to warp, becoming desert-dry dirt, losing stable form entirely, pouring down in a waterfall of atomic grain.

Derek doesn't feel him, doesn't see him, galaxies of desolation in those impossible eyes; he looks so _lost_ , resigned. Finding nothing, he turns away, and all Stiles gets is Derek's back, the nogitsune's smirk, before the rest of him fragments, disintegrates, and he's lost to nightmare again.

Sickly twisting of shadows, filmy trees, and foliage, everything wet and slimy. There's a telling prickle at the back of his neck, and the slight creak, slow snap of a twig behind him. Crunching leaves, massive presence getting closer, his breath halting as fear crawls on a thousand cockroach legs, tickling the base of his spine, urging him to fucking _run_.

The thing behind him, that which inspires a visceral, phobic fear, comes steady-slow, etching its' path patiently, and no matter how fast Stiles runs, it always catches up to him, slurps down his marrow as he screams, laughs as red eyes blink languidly in the distance.

 _Brother,_ he thinks desperately, _Scott._ Then a pair of blue eyes, and another, a pair of gold, all encroaching until his whole Pack is surrounding him, watching disinterestedly as the thing heaves itself up onto his back, presses its' whole weight down, crushing.

The people he loves do nothing, and Stiles struggles, but black sways in, snatches into his sight and his mind, moonlight shadows being cast by infinite statues and pillars.

A gagging breath, choked sob, his eyes flutter open to a marble temple, instincts digging just underneath the base of his skull. He gasps for blood-soaked air, heaves himself from prone to kneeling, looks over his shoulder, and the thing is there again, its' languid pace stark in contrast to Stiles' scrambling, terrified run.

This time, when it gets him, it gnaws on sinew, and his packmates are the ones laughing, all gathered around at the spectacle.

 _"I am always within you, but you're losing me quickly, what am I?"_ Scott chuckles.

"I don't know—I don't—help me, help me, please. I can't—"

Pitched into darkness.

A breaking, bursting cough.

The chase recycles.

 _"What gets bigger the more you take away?"_ Lydia chimes.

A hole, he thinks, senselessly.

 _"I begin and have no viable end, I end all that truly begins, you cannot hide, cheat, or outrun me; I am always around, but forever unseen, what am I?"_ Allison whispers, voice threaded with silken glee.

Death.

 _"When is a door not a door?"_ His father inquires, all giddy cheer.

When it's ajar.

 _"I am always within you, but you're losing me quickly, what am I?"_ Derek rumbles, pleased.

Hope.

* * *

When Stiles becomes present again, aware, it's not by his own will, struggle, ascent. The nogitsune _lets_ him, as punishment for forcing it to help.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" The demon rasps, straddling Derek, grinding Stiles' hips down. Stiles can feel the blood from whatever battle they'd endured while he was away spattering them, he can feel the thrilling ache of being _full_ , the throb of it, having someone else _inside_ of him. Derek thrusts up and Stiles moans, half surprised by the jolt of electrifying intensity—and maybe it's that, or maybe it's a trick, he doesn't know, but for a moment, he has _control_.

He's trembling violently, the fluid motion of Derek's muscles visceral underneath him, strong, smooth hands pressing into his hips, anchoring him. His breath catches, mouth gaping, hands splayed on Derek's chest (ten fingers, only ten, _exactly_ ten). He doesn't know how much time he has, dissonance, echoes, ghosts all curdling, calling, tearing him away with talons and sharp wings.

"Derek," he whimpers, because the wolf has gone still, now, too. Brow furrowed and wide eyes searching with breathless desperation, because something shifted, the moment Stiles became _Stiles_ , something shifted, and he felt it.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice wavers, cracks, and Stiles hums around a soggy whine, folding his body down, closer, his hole fluttering convulsively around him, the slick-slide of movement causing them both to gasp, Derek panting out a hitched curse. Stiles presses his shaking hands gently, gently to the soft feeling of scruff, a well-trimmed beard where once there was barely stubble. It looks good on him (god, how long has he been gone? how much time has he lost?), and Stiles tries to flash a smile for it, soaks that heart-warmed, tacitly despairing feeling in a kiss, because that's all he can do right now.

He doesn't have much time left.

He pulls away with a weeping breath, sees tears running down Derek's cheeks and huffs out a water-logged laugh, because it's terrifying, crazy, _boggling_ , that this _isn't_ the first time these eyes have seen this strong, unbreakable man cry, but it _is_ the first time _Stiles_ has.

He remembers what Derek's been telling him, over and over and over again, words he's held onto, a memory made outside of himself, adrift, unmoored, a whisper that penetrates to the deepest parts of his soul and never leaves.

"I love you," he surrenders, harrowed, hallowed; "I'm _sorry_ , I'm so sorry. I love you."

Derek whines, high-pitched and purely animal, wraps his arms around him, holding him as close as he is able, clinging, even though they both know it's futile. Stiles hides his face in the crook of Derek's neck, and for the first time since... he doesn't actually know—he feels _safe_. Cocooned in relief, held on the brink of ecstasy and exhaustion, delirious and suddenly over-oxygenated where he'd been suffocating before.

He lets his body move, languidly, not expressly seeking an end, just enjoying the pleasure, the sanctity of it, while he can. Derek moves with him, shallow thrusts, lullaby rock, and neither of them speak because there's nothing to say. There's a hopeless melancholy, and an empathic unity, understanding. Neither of them know what to do, how much time the nogitsune will allow them, but they have this moment. A moment in eternity, to crawl underneath each other's skins and live there a while, breathe, be _whole_.

He keens softly, clenching, when Derek grinds up against his prostate, shifts his weight a little so Derek keeps hitting it, the sleepy-tranquil tightening in his abdomen causing his breath to quicken, all simmering slow-burn throbbing ache. Derek bucks up a little harder, panting on the tail end of a shuddered moan, heat increasing.

Mouth dry, Stiles swallows, nuzzles into Derek's neck. The man groans, half anguished, thrusting faster, lingering with an intentional, delicious grind when he's bottomed out. Stiles mewls, fucks down into the vivified movement as he licks a stripe up his lover's pulse-point, kisses, suppresses a shiver when Derek keeps himself all the way inside, a swirling, scorching, compressed rock that tickles shocks up Stiles' spine.

He's close to coming, so close.

Whimpering breathily, he nibbles, sucks, creating a mark he knows will not last, for all that he wants it to with the entirety of his being.

He starts to writhe, moaning and canting and getting closer to urgent, needy, "Please," he begs, and isn't entirely sure who he's begging, let alone _what_ , "please, please."

Derek groans, pulling out enough to ram back in, hard and abrupt, setting Stiles' whole body alight. "I've got you, baby, shh, shhh. I've got you."

He creeps up with teeth and tongue and lips to Derek's fuzzy jaw, his mouth, kisses deep, yearning, all unquenchable thirst. Only pulls away with a cry when his lungs are screaming and his whole body is convulsing, spiraling toward climax. Derek watches him, open-mouthed and focused, etching every tremor, every flicker of emotion, into his memory.

He twitches, electrified, every sensation suddenly tunneled on Derek inside of him, on the ache, exploding, pulsing with fevered heat as he finally comes, wailing, soaring, Derek's thrusts becoming sporadic, jerky. "Don't stop," he breathes, begs, "don't stop. Please, god, Derek, please don't stop."

His fingernails dig into Derek's chest as the man pounds into him, all his muscles tensing when he finally jumps from his own plateau with a sub-vocal, purring sort of growl, pumping thick ropes of fluid into Stiles' euphoria-saturated body as he trembles with the aftershocks, the intensity.

They laze together in the lull of catching their breath between whisper-sweet, sorrow-stained _'I love you's _. Stiles' eyes seize on the window, the sprawling streets, autumnal trees, and his last conscious thought before drifting into a stealing slumber, is wondering what day it is.__

____

(The nogitsune keeps him under, deeper than ever, after, but he still manages to fight for scraps of _'being present'_. Derek wears the hickey he gave him, unhealing, and Stiles tries not to weep for him, for _both_ of them.)

* * *

It feels like it's been years stuck in this neverending nightmare-hell—he's barely able to come up from it anymore, and the few times he has, all he gets are glimpses of the nogitsune using his body to take advantage of Derek, listening as it whispers ridicule and blame in his ear, taking all that weight Derek carries and coating Stiles' tongue with it, torturing him with its' knowledge as they fuck, sometimes pretending, horrendously, discordantly, to _be_ Stiles.

Derek's eyes seem a little darker every time, a little more splintered, hollow, carved out. He starts getting skinny in a way that doesn't seem healthy, he doesn't look like he sleeps, and Stiles is beginning to wonder if the nogitsune isn't just feeding off of chaos and pain and strife, if it's actually gnawing on Derek's _soul_.

And he can't, god, he can't just fucking _give up_ and let it happen. He's... his body is being utilized as a fucking rape weapon by some sort of demon against the man he loves, someone already endlessly, hauntingly traumatized.

So what if he's going insane? So what if colors blur together and he's starting to laugh when nightmare-monsters slaughter his friends in front of him? So what if he counts nineteen fingers and begins biting the extra digits off, reveling in the pain? So what if losing time becomes losing _sense_ of time? of himself?

 _"I am always within you, but you're losing me quickly, what am I?"_ Derek grins, eyes sparkling, and Stiles cackles like he's in on the joke.

 _"My mind,"_ he coos back, and, dizzy, begins to gather the delightful, gossamer threads of a plan.

* * *

He accepts every catastrophic, immersive vision with a dull buzz in his ears, with an encroaching devastation, despair, bloody-knuckled fists straining to maintain his foggy recollections of his family, his packmates, _Derek_ , cleaving to them, reminding himself that what he sees here is _**not** real_. He wins five games of go in a row, bashes one of his nightmare-monsters to death with nothing more than a paltry stick, rabid tenacity acrid behind his bared teeth (it's not the first he's managed to slaughter, ferocious, determined, _mad,_ but it's the first that coincided with a winning streak), and he finally, finally, after what seems like _decades_ , manages to surge to the forefront of his own mind, to push the demon _back_.

He collides into his body with enough jarring force to nearly buckle his knees, the Preserve unfolding around him, Scott's laughing, arm wrapped around some girl he doesn't know's shoulders (she looks pretty, bubbly, a stranger), Allison and Lydia and Isaac are just behind him, Derek's at the lead with a sandy-haired girl explaining how to _supress_ her... coyote? how to find an anchor and maintain humanity (Stiles would be proud of how far he's come- exercises and learn as you go, show and tell teaching instead of using pain as a crutch- if it weren't for the fact that he's clueless, confused, and has bilious dread creeping up the nobs of his spine because _so many_ of his nightmares start like this).

Disoriented, he goes to his hands, counts each finger up to ten and down again, tremulous.

"I'm awake?" He breathes, heart thundering dully in his chest, everyone seeming to notice something's wrong, all of them halting in their tracks and turning to him with varying levels of solicitous confusion, excepting the sandy-haired girl, who just seems curious, offering:

"I could pinch you?"

Stiles' gaze flicks up to Derek, and heterochromatic eyes widen with dawning understanding. The man he loves reaches tentatively forward, breathless, but Stiles flashes to every moment the nogitsune forced those hands to do things they probably _savagely_ did not want to do, and, almost without meaning to, flinches back. Derek's face shatters, crumbles, and Stiles' heart clenches violently, anguish swallowing him whole.

He's assaulted with nauseating memories that are both his and _not_ , of the nogitsune with Derek, of it manipulating his father, the others, incrementally snappish and cruel until Scott and the rest seem _used_ to it, resigned (it's indescribably painful realizing how easy it was for this thing to twist every notion of a relationship he had), of it letting a prisoner out of their cell, making a bomb for them, refusing to go to the funerals of deputies Stiles has known his entire life (and killed, he killed them, his hands, _these_ hands), grew up with, telling his father that he couldn't deal with his mother's birthday, visiting her grave like they do every year, and why should he? when she was abusive? (She wasn't, she wasn't, she was sick; God, why would it _say_ that?)

After the overbright tide of remembrance washes away, Stiles shivers, sallow and encumbered. "What have I done?" He prays, wet and sticking, and he hears Derek emit a high, ferine, wounded whine.

"Stiles?" Scott asks, voice wavering, unsure and probably scenting a swathe of chemo-signals he couldn't possibly understand.

Stiles feels a tether of his control snapping, the nogitsune pushing, ruthlessly, to the forefront.

"Fuck," he mutters, sniffs, swallows, _"fuck."_ He twists around, searching, frantic, for something, _anything_ he could use to—

Allison. She's looking at him, brow furrowed, bemused dimples, her bow in her hand and a quiver of arrows on her back.

Ah.

An end. That... would be easiest, wouldn't it?

Maybe the nogitsune would die with him? He has no idea, no feasible clue, but all it takes is rushing forward, a surge of violent, practiced movement (and who knew that muscle-memory you learn in the midst of your subconscious can be retained in the waking world?), none of the pack cottoning on to what he's doing or why, except, perhaps, Derek, whose whine pitches up into a hopeless, destroyed, _excrutiated_ sort of howl—and then he has an arrow.

He wastes no time, he doesn't have time _to_ waste, his demon is an urgent prickle at the back of his mind, and everyone around him will try to stop him if he hesitates (even after all he's done, all the nogitsune's _made_ him do). With a sharp inhale he raises the arrow, two-handed above his head, horrified realization erupting in his packmates a second before he plunges the bolt into his gut, aiming for an artery, tender organs, using the momentum to propel the weapon as deep as he can get it, stumbling back as the agony hits him, flushed and fevered and dizzy, weak, he pulls the arrow out, making absolutely sure the damage is _done_.

Scott's caught hold of him before anyone else even has the chance to _move_ , and his brother's eyes are glazed over as he guides Stiles' falling body down as gently as he is able, mouth working soundlessly around words of senseless, stutter-shock, hands scrambling to staunch the flow of blood.

"No, no, no—wha—how—?" His brother's frayed, distraught questions are all snippets of cut up paper, flimsy and floating in murky water, disintegrating as his body is wracked with tears.

"Sorry, Scotty," Stiles breathes, coughs, choking on pebbles of spit-froth blood. "I... I couldn't—" _keep fighting. I couldn't win, how do you win against something like this? I couldn't keep hurting the people I love._

The sting of tears blurs his sight as he looks past packmates gathering, fiercely protective and trembling with the sudden, overwhelming adrenaline, urgency. Derek stands, paler than he's ever seen him, _friable_ , tears unabashedly tumbling down his cheeks, shattered stained-glass eyes staring, unblinking, at the ink-blot on tissue-paper steady spread of sanguine soaking through Stiles' shirt. Breathless, bereft, the man takes one clumsy, staggering step forward, before he seems to stop himself, guilt cluttering his frame, an insurmountable weight.

"Derek," Stiles whispers, quietly sobs, reaching a hand feebly out, and Derek seems to break all at once, shuddering out an aching, misty, whimpering breath as he runs forward and drops harshly to his knees, taking Stiles' hand in a vice grip, shaking apart and just barely holding on as he bends forward, keeping Stiles' hand against the cavernous curve of him, pressing his forehead to Stiles' chest with an utterly bereft, animal noise.

"It's over," Stiles murmurs, swallows down a mouthful of copper-tinted iron, struggles, lifts his other hand to run it through Derek's hair, the touch causing a choked, keening cry.

Allison has her hand over her mouth, eyes ablaze, tortured, protective, like if there was some sort of enemy to blame she'd already be at its' throat; Isaac is holding onto Scott's shoulder, shock and confusion swirling in his lake-water eyes; Scott's emitting this sub-vocal whine as he mumbles terrified nonsense, puts pressure on the wound, trying to weave together some sort of coherent plan to keep him _alive_ , and Lydia's panting, short, shallow breaths, tears clustering her eyelashes, like she's ten seconds away from a panic attack.

The sandy-haired girl is trying to listen to Scott, but there's a grim sympathy already hidden in her thin frown, because however much medical knowledge Scott may have, there's no way he's making it out of the Preserve alive, let alone all the way to a hospital. The bubbly one is sobbing as hard as- if not _harder than_ \- his brother, trying to help however she can.

Stiles lets his eyes flutter closed, his breath sticky and wet. "It's over, it's _over_. I can't hurt you anymore." Relief twined with torment saturates his sigh. "Hey," he tugs on Derek's hair a bit and the man squeezes his hand, pushes his face deeper into Stiles' chest, "don't blame yourself for this, don't—"

"No one's blaming themselves for _anything,"_ Lydia snaps, quiet, all mercury and ferocious determination. "I will not scream for you Stiles, I _refuse."_ He hauls his eyes open to look at her, his first love, who became one of his best friends, smarter than all of them put together. She sniffs, primly. "Scott, Bite him."

Scott isn't paying attention, too focused on making some sort of improvised bandage, stretcher, trembling hands soaked in Stiles' blood, unraveling.

_"Scott."_

"I—" His brother looks up at her, stranded in dazed, weeping oblivion. "What?"

 _"Bite_ him!"

Scott blinks slowly, before turning to Stiles, loamy eyes laden with rain, voice laced with despair, "Would you want that? If I offered that, would you—would you say yes?"

"Scott," Lydia hisses again, plaintive.

"No!" He half-roars, eyes flashing dangerously, his control chaotic, and everyone flinches back from the outburst. He returns his focus to putting pressure on the wound, swallows down all that bitter brine, visibly reigning himself back in. "No," he repeats, calmer. "I—no one gave me a choice. No one _ever_ gave me a choice..." He sighs, the tail-end of it breaking down into a wretched sob, gaze fluttering to Stiles'. Stiles presses his lips together, his cheeks burning and his heart _aching_. "I love him, too," Scott rasps, and there's the guilty, horrified beginnings of resignation in his tight, wobbling tone; _I don't want him to die,_ is left unsaid, but crushes the minute silence under its' weight.

"I have to give him a choice."

(And, considering he did this to _himself_ , they all know what that choice will be.)

Derek takes a staccato breath, unbends to look at Stiles with eyes gone concave, like the last, lingering vestiges of him have been all but eviscerated, and Stiles inhales sharply, whimpers, anguished.

"I don't want to be... trapped in an endless nightmare, anymore," he gasps out between shuddering sobs, and Derek brings their laced fingers to his heart, caresses Stiles' cheek with his free hand, bites down on the lemon-rind of all this pain with a low, stunted whine. "I don't want to. To _hurt you_ , anymore."

And if he lives, he will. The nogitsune will make him. It will _never_ let go.

"Stiles..." Derek sounds so lost, broken, yearning. "I love you. So much, since the moment I met you, I've done because I love you. Because I didn't want to _lose_ you," his words are choked with all his fragile-glass shatter, rasped and unmoored, and when it hits Stiles, that the man he loves- the one who has endured so much _trauma_ at _his_ hands- is _begging_ him, he keens out something wounded, mournful. "I don't want to lose you, Stiles," he whispers, rugged, leans in to kiss liquid rubies from his lips, tears raining from his eyelashes to Stiles' fevered cheeks. Stiles opens up for him, deepens a kiss that tastes of salt-water and iron, prays for it to linger.

"Please," Derek murmurs against his mouth, wet and damaged, so fucking close to hopeless. "I'll do everything in my power to get it out of you, to destroy it, I _swear_ , just _please_ don't make me lose you?"

Stiles groans, agonized and decisive, flings out an arm with whatever strength he has left to muster, "Brother," he huffs, open and over-full, "that's your cue. I've heard magic fangs do wonders for the metabolism."

Derek laughs, quivering and wavering and crumbling, the tiniest grains of sugar scattered against a tumultuous waterfall, and Stiles smiles in wonderment at it, at the sudden sunlight in heterochromatic galaxies, dimples amongst rivulets of tears, the glimpse of bunny teeth.

Everything is still undercut with urgency, with something eery-shadow, ashen-pitch looming on the horizon, a demon of chaos still lurking beneath his chest, and he has no idea how this is going to go, but darkness is already swaying into his vision, the tatters of death's robes teasing him of what's to come.

A sharp, pins and needles sensation wraps around his wrist, tugs all of his senses, consciousness toward it, as that encroaching void closes in.

Perhaps he will reject the Bite, perhaps he's just made the nogitsune that much stronger, perhaps something else entirely, but it's over, it's done, and there's nothing left for him to do but _rest_.

(He is, after all, _so_ tired.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enigmatically badass Deaton is badass, recovery and flufffffffff
> 
> Content Warning :: Emetophobes beware, a thing happens.

Derek comes clean, and he is surprised when no one blames him; there's no betrayal glittering in their eyes when- Stiles' unconscious form lying on Deaton's table, the whole of the Pack gathered, weary and harrowed and _waiting_ (because, while Stiles' wounds have all healed, he has yet to wake)- he explains in dull, empty tones, everything that's been happening for... nearly a _year_ , now.

Kira- a kitsune they'd met at school and learned about in rapid succession when the nogitsune had subtly (Derek hadn't known until after-the-fact, and by then it was too late; he'd asked after their deal, and the demon had said it didn't _explicitly_ hurt _anyone_ , if anything, it _helped_ someone. What that person did of their own accord afterward was on their head. And then a kiss, a grin, and a _'Did you know? You taste **delightful** after people have died.'_ ) broken some mass-murderer out of prison, and she'd discovered her powers helping them after accidentally getting dragged into the crossfire- looks _devastated_ , which is almost funny, considering she's only known them for a handful of months.

Malia- a werecoyote the sheriff led them to by way of looking for supernatural connotations to cold-case files, now he was in-the-know- is half indifferent, half observant, and bluntly sympathetic in a way that doesn't hold much comfort.

Allison and Lydia, both, seem frustrated with their helplessness, but not, oddly enough, with him. Gerard and Peter manipulated them grossly, and they are familiar with being forced to do things unwillingly, or unwittingly, even when the gun put to your head cannot, physically, be seen.

Isaac is a quiet, peripheral sort of empathy. The amount of understanding in his eyes makes Derek feel raw-ache small.

Scott... Scott looks guilty. Like he should've known, been able to, somehow, protect both he and Stiles, his packmates, his _best friends_ , from this. Should've noticed, seen. ("He was being— _different_. I thought he was lashing out, or—I thought I could—")

Mostly, their horror came when he told them how _long_ it had been going on. And, upon realizing that, extrapolated. (Allison swallowed, voice crackling like embers, "But you weren't... you weren't involved until—"

"I love him," he'd told them, candid, and clamor had died down until the sheriff had placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

"We know, son. We know.")

On the third day, those who have school and jobs to attend leave, Derek, Chris, and Deaton remain, holding vigil. When Henry's (Malia's father, who they brought into the fold pretty much the moment they adopted Malia) shift is over, he comes, then Noah, Melissa, the kids when school lets out. The idea of going home, even to those who may not seem as inclined to care, of leaving an injured packmate when you don't _have_ to, doesn't even occur to them.

"I'm sorry," Scott tells him once, and only once, with a depth of feeling that floors him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't know what he _could_ say. Part of him wants to protest his Alpha's guilt, _'You're not the one who wanted, craved, **took** '_, but he's too nauseous and ashamed, hanging onto the precarious beat of Stiles' heart, his only reassurance. Tacitly, wordlessly, he takes Scott's hand in his, and, together, their Pack waits.

* * *

A stuttered coughing rouses Derek, has him shooting up from his uncomfortable position in one of the many plastic chairs Scott and Deaton had managed to scrounge up from nowhere. Most of the Pack wakes with him, hypervigilant, all of them rushing over to where Stiles is choking on crushed-velvet licorice-ichor, Derek and the sheriff flanking him, pulling him up as he spits black-bile, his hands ending up fisted at Derek's chest and his father's shoulder as he hacks until... a fly? comes out with the vestiges of inky excretion.

"What the hell?" Noah mutters, holding onto his son, watching as the insect tries to make a hasty retreat, only to be caught in a wooden canister by Deaton, who seals it in with an approving noise.

Stiles blinks dazedly at the man, void-liquid dripping from his chin, panting heavily. "Dude... were you _waiting_ for that to happen?"

The enigmatic smile the druid offers them is... something to awe, and, vaguely, chilling (Lydia stifles a giggle, and the man offers her something more contemplative, hallowed, something Derek refuses to look at too deeply). But no one really gets a chance to question their Emissary further because they're all far too busy staring at Stiles. Who, after _two weeks_ , is finally awake. _Alive_.

"Uhhh," Stiles rasps, warily eyeing everyone as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, "hi?"

"Are you you?" Malia asks impatiently, "Because you not being you makes everyone smell _terrible."_

"He is himself," Deaton tells them, as he sets the canister aside and goes rummaging through one of his cupboards for a washcloth that he dampens, offers to Stiles. "That fly _was_ the nogitsune—because the Bite took, your body became inhospitable to it, and it was forced to leave. Now," he motions to the triskele engraved container, and Derek is hit with thousands of questions that he has no idea how to ask, and that, honestly, don't seem that important right now, "it is trapped."

"Wait," Stiles huffs, disbelieving, scrubbing himself clean before returning the now-soiled cloth with a slight grimace. "That's it? It's over?"

"Yes, Mr. Stilinski. The nogitsune will never bother you again, I will make sure of that. I'm very sorry it ever bothered you at all."

"So..." Scott begins, shallow-soft, tentative, "he's okay? He's safe?"

"Yes," Deaton repeats, solemn reassurance, kind, and a breath of relief seems to wash over them, cleans the shadowed, murky doom from the room, relieves the pressure. Everyone seems to rejoice, most of them dive-bombing him with hugs and questions (which he deflects expertly with an exuberant, overbright, near-manic sort of energy); he meets Kira and Malia, truly, for the first time, wonders how being a 'were will affect him, since, other than being _alive_ when he really shouldn't be, he doesn't _feel_ any different; he apologizes, quietly, about the things the nogitsune made him do, ends up at the center of a comforting, cottoncandy-sweet group hug, and though no one, for a second, thinks he believes them, they all tell him it wasn't his fault.

He keeps Derek's hand in a white-knuckled grip the whole time, squeezing every time a thread of panic enters his scent, every time his heart trips for no apparent reason, but his eyes keep skittering away, and he seems to be avoiding facing him, talking to him. Not that Derek blames him, after everything, it kind of feels like a wonder he gets to stay so close.

Which might be why he's so surprised when Stiles turns to his dad and Scott, the two of them sticking as close as humanly possible, touching and scenting instinctively, overprotective and still reeling from the events that had transpired so unbeknownst to them, and asks if he can give Derek a ride to the loft in Roscoe.

"I love you guys," he murmurs, frank, "but you all kinda look like shit."

"Worse than you?" Isaac snipes, and Stiles, in a show of affection that's so much more _genuine_ than what they'd gotten used to, ruffles the other boy's hair roughly.

 _"Yes_ , worse than me, jackass. Go home, all of you, get some sleep, let me give my car a brohug, and, uh," he looks at Derek from underneath his eyelashes, shy-worry, swallows, "have a kind of important, Big Deal conversation?"

Noah sighs, acquiescent, pulls his son into a solid, steadying hug. "I'm still not sure about the age gap," he whispers, for all the privacy it gives him in a room full of supernatural creatures, "but do what makes you happy, okay, kid? And come home when you can."

Stiles pats his father's back with a misty sort of nod, sniffles as he steps back, and huffs out a soft chuckle when the man is immediately replaced by Scott, who holds him rib-crushingly tight.

"You couldn't've known, dude," Stiles tells his brother, not needing words to understand. "No one could've. And I'm okay, now, I'm fine. I mean, maybe I lost a year," Scott snuffles into his friend's neck and Derek can hear the melancholy-starlight smile shimmering in his voice as he continues, "but I'm... I'm fine."

Scott lets go with a deep, shuddering exhale, smacks a kiss on his forehead that Stiles snorts for, offers a puppy-dog grin before turning to offer Kira and Isaac a ride home, while Malia and her father, Allison and hers begin gathering their coats to leave, Lydia apparently deciding to stay, and Noah proclaiming to be heading off to bed (or, more likely, work—Derek's beginning to notice that, in stringent avoidance of alcohol, Noah's job is practically a coping mechanism, however irrational that may seem). Stiles leans into him, and silently, they head outside, greeting Roscoe in the chilly autumn-twilight.

They take the scenic route to the loft, waves of uninterrupted silence sweeping and crashing over them, and, for once, Derek wants to be the one to break it, but he doesn't quite know how.

What could he possibly say, now? after everything?

"Let's go inside," Stiles whispers as he parks, heaves out a sigh and scrubs his face roughly with his hands, manages to flash a stunted smile, before climbing out of the car.

With a sinking feeling, Derek follows after him.

* * *

Stiles feels... _jittery_. He knows it's the Bite, him not being human now turning into overstimulation because fucking _heartbeats_ —he can hear his own, Derek's, the alley cat's. He can hear bugs and branches rustling and the whisper of _other_. He can smell icy-rain on the air, crisp and frost, the underbelly of rotting leaves and loam, wet pavement, Roscoe's oil-leak, the vestiges of blood mingled with bleach and wax that saturates the loft's floorboards, and _Derek_.

Derek smells like mountains, like the exhilaration of climbing them, like fresh pine and sticky-sweet sap, all over-oxygenated, but with burnt-sugar and something acrid, tumultuous cutting through. It gets stronger, the longer Stiles doesn't speak, becomes a forest fire, smoke so thick it makes it hard to breathe.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and when Stiles turns to him, he just looks so _sad._

"Fuck, I hate this," Stiles seethes, frustrated, runs hands through a year's worth of longer hair. "I hate that I got possessed and did _terrible_ things, I hate that I'm so afraid, I hate that I love you and I don't know what to do about it." He exhales sharply, looks down at his hands, ticks fingers off one by one. "I hate that it's so hard to remember this is real. I... Derek, what I did to you?" He trembles, swallows, struggles to get through this, but before he can continue, Derek's in front of him, gentling a grip around Stiles' wrists.

"I wanted," Derek whispers, half-lost in their mingled breath, raw-ache written in every line of his face. "I wanted so _badly_ , Stiles, but I shouldn't have—"

"What?" Stiles asks, tearful, half incredulous, lifting his hands to cup Derek's cheeks, search tormented stained-glass eyes. "You... you love me. You said you loved me."

Derek's eyes flutter shut, and he nods, cheeks flushed with emotion, hot beneath his palms, fingers tightening around Stiles' wrists, as if to ground himself.

"And it... it _showed_ you I loved you, too, I _wanted you, too_ , and then it told you it would kill everyone else, _including me_ , if you didn't—didn't—and _I_ did that to you, I made you—"

 _"No,"_ Derek protests, whines, high and undulating in the back of his throat, and Stiles sighs harshly, the bitter scent of tears overwhelming on his tongue.

"I don't want to lose you, either. I don't want to lose _this._ But I don't want to hurt you, I _never_ fucking want to hurt you again. God, I might, though. I'm stupid and reckless and I—"

"May I kiss you?" Derek interrupts, begs, their mouths already practically touching. "Please, may I kiss you?"

Stiles inhales shakily, huffs a rainy kind of laugh at their hearts both speeding up, Derek's mountainous ember-brine invaded by his lightning, rain-drenched loam. "Yes."

It's soft, silken pressure, all \comfort and soothe and soaring hope. When it's over, despite having been small and meek, it takes a long time for Stiles to get his breath back, fill his aching lungs; his blood feels like champagne-fizz, his lips tingle.

He hooks his arms around Derek's neck, nudges their noses together, indulging in little, non-existent, teasing pecks before asking quietly, quivering, "Can I kiss _you?"_

 _"Yes,"_ Derek answers, with _feeling_ , and Stiles lets himself give into the yearning, licks inside to taste something rich, scorching, goes deeper. Certain threads of guilt untangle themselves, because this is something he chose, something Derek chose, candidly, together. The rest still coagulates, even as Stiles trails his kisses along the corner of Derek's mouth, sucking and nibbling a little at Derek's jaw, hiding in the crook of his neck and melting there to just _breathe_.

He doesn't know if he will ever be _free_ of this guilt, but there's a rush, a surge of relief, to have even that much bleed away, to crawl out of his own doubt-inducing skin and into Derek's, to be impossibly close, to be able to _keep_ , hold. He's still scared, of—of _everything_ , but Derek's arms wrap around him, steadfast, firm, and so incredibly warm that safety seeps in, despite everything.

"I love you," he murmurs, and for once, doesn't feel the need to apologize for it, for everything that comes with it, for the trauma it may've caused them both.

Derek returns the sentiment, just as solemn, kind, a little bit brave, tickles the words against his cheek along with a wondering kiss, and Stiles smiles into his skin, nuzzling into the side of his throat, where his scent, the sound of his heartbeat, are strongest, scratching lightly up and down his back, earning a melodious growl that's so much like a purr it demands Stiles' smile tumble into a helpless, honestly _happy_ , grin.

Stiles doesn't know how long they stand there, just hugging, comforting, open, but, eventually, he drags himself away from the embrace, sliding his hands down Derek's arms to lace their fingers together, lead him to the bed. Derek lifts Stiles' knuckles to his lips, and he coos a giggle, "You're totally a romantic sap, aren't you?"

Derek shrugs unapologetically, holds that kiss-blessed hand against his heart and, beautifully, poignantly, keeps it there as they climb onto the fluffy mattress, curling in to cuddle as they lay down, trading kitten-kisses, sighing soft, sweet nothings.

Neither of them really mean to sleep, both because, after everything, sleeping just seems precarious, and because this isn't really about that, it's... it's intimacy. Private. Something that finally, finally, belongs to _them_.

* * *

Stiles spends a month investing time in everybody (catching up on schoolwork, fortunately enough, only really takes a week or two worth of all-nighters; during that time, Derek kept climbing in through his window, hovering and scowling- which is essentially his version of mother-henning and wringing his hands- before utilizing the kitchen to cook him food and make him coffee. Stiles kept unashamedly stripping him of his shirt so he could wear it because a: their scents combined are like condensed happy-safe-home, b: Derek is his boyfriend and he is totally allowed, and c: Derek's eyes do this glitter-crinkle smile thing whenever he does it that's as addictive as his scent, his hugs, his kisses, always ends up wearing more layers whenever Stiles has been complaining of cold), rebonding and reassuring, finding a rhythm with new packmates, weighed down by new traumas, _recovering_.

Scott and his dad take the most convincing that it was _not_ their fault for not noticing, not 'protecting'. It was an impossible situation, and if he's not allowed to blame himself, they're not allowed to blame themselves.

Lydia, who is now apparently somewhat of a thing? with Deaton? gives him a makeover, forces him to accept her tutelage, and commiserates about having older lovers, all the while expertly avoiding the nogitsune issue altogether, firmly and decisively and steel-laced stubbornly moving on from it; it's both respectable, and exactly what he needs from her.

Allison and he half avoid each other for a week (she feels nearly as terrible as Scott and his father do, resents the fact that she was rendered powerless and ignorant without realizing, and he feels like shit for using her arrows to try and fucking kill himself), before coming together almost aggressively, snapping caustically for no apparent reason before just completely breaking down on each other, about their mothers and the insanity of grief, about Gerard (he manipulated her and mind-fucked her _way_ more than Stiles had ever realized, and she's the first person he's _ever_ told about what Gerard did to him), about the goddamn motherfucking nogitsune and how far it went, using his body to torment the man he loves, how far it made him feel like he had to go, in order to make it stop. By the end of it, they're wrung-out, exhausted, and passing out on each other mid-sentence. They both wake up sweaty, underneath a puppy-pile of sleeping packmates, with Chris looming over the scene, eye twitching.

Isaac, he learns, is now dating Allison, living with Scott, and going to therapy. His empathy is still a little abrasive, and it's easier to get along with him when they're being sarcastic, snarky assholes at one another, but there's a simmering understanding there, and a fondness soaking through it all.

Kira is awkward and clumsy and overwhelmingly adorable, besotted with Scott, and a badass with a katana. She's _really amazingly easy to talk to_ , his ADHD brain and all her subtle brilliance and hyper-bubbly combining to create a rapid-fire mode of conversation that no one could ever hope to follow along with, thousands of topics covered within a few minutes, at least five things spilled or fumbled or flailed at, and Stiles' last pen chewed to the point of no return.

Malia is the most realistic, honest person he's ever met, and somehow optimistic in a completely subversive way. She doesn't pull punches, but she does seem to care for them all, in her own way, and she has a kind of frustrated wonder to her at times, because everything is both new and vaguely difficult to understand. She doesn't really care much about the whole nogitsune thing, beyond the fact that, now it's over, everyone smells ten times cleaner, Stiles is willing to tutor her in math (Lydia was trying, but Malia kind of wanted to chew her head off after every session), Derek is glowy ("Are you pregnant?" "... No." "You look all gold and you keep smiling. It's weird." "..." "Oh, hey. Now you're red."), and Stiles keeps cooking meals that don't taste like chemicals.

And Derek. Despite fucking _everything_ , Derek is the love of his life, and he's quite sure, at this point, that the reverse applies. Somehow, a year's worth of haunting, terrifying, utterly traumatizing memories that sewed guilt and horror within them both are enveloped by kisses and cuddles and exhilarating, clumsy-new, giddy dates, by them sticking close to each other, clingy and delighted with the new aspects, facets of each others' personalities they discover, being that close, by them talking, and working through it all to the best of their ability.

Stiles still has nightmares, so does Derek, and they both have triggers, things to avoid or approach with delicacy because of the things they've endured, but they're alive and they're safe and they're whole and _together_ , and, honestly, by the time Stiles' first fullmoon rolls around, it's starting to feel like they really did win this one, even if he's nervous and antsy and worried.

"I mean, you might be fine?" Kira suggests with a little shrug, the whole Pack in the basement of the Martins' lake-house, Malia and Stiles, both, bound with chains, however discomfited it may make their packmates to do such to them, it's, as far as they know, a necessary evil. "Malia has a _lot_ of trouble," she winces, then, but Malia's just nodding along like that's a perfectly honest and fair assessment (it is), "and Scott's told me some horror stories about being freshly Bitten."

"Like that time he tried to kill me?" Stiles snipes good-naturedly, laughing when Kira and Scott nod vehemently, wide-eyed.

"But you haven't even _shifted_ , bro," Scott continues, half concerned. "No claws, fangs, flashing eyes?"

Derek clicks the last cufflink in place around Stiles' ankle with a grimace, flicking his gaze up, badly concealed overprotective worry vivid in the galaxies of his eyes. "It's not... unheard of. For a Bitten 'were to have exceptional control if they have an Anchor. Or if their Bite affected them... differently."

Stiles blinks, vestiges of sunlight eking out of the horizon. "Differently?" His voice comes out unexpectedly high and cracking. "Differently _how?_ Please tell me I'm not going to turn into a giant lizard, man," he's whining and he doesn't even care, "come on."

Lydia rolls her eyes dramatically, Malia wonders, "What's wrong with being a giant lizard?" Scott and Allison, both, get this look of utter sympathy crossed with _how the hell am I supposed to explain kanimas to **Malia?**_ , and Derek goes from crouching to standing, offers a consoling kiss, and mumbles half teasingly, "I guess we're just going to have to find out."

And they do—the moon comes up, Scott and Kira essentially acting as Malia's Anchors, their effectiveness wavering at times in the face of her absolute wild, but holding steady (though, Stiles has to admit, the chains probably help), and Stiles is... a _fox_.

Seriously, one second he's trying to keep himself calm, fidgeting, uncomfortable, and wanting to kiss the heavy worry right off of Derek's stupid face, the next the chains are completely uneffective, his clothes are shredded, and he's got _paws_ , rust-silk fur with a creamy underbelly and a narrow snout. Derek's eyes go wide, face goes soft, and Stiles tries to—he doesn't know, reassure him? but all that comes out is a chittering yip as Stiles takes a tentative step forward (he doesn't feel angry, or murderous, out of control, he just feels incredibly hyper and playful, like he's on a sugar-rush or something).

"Oh my god," Allison murmurs, surprised and gleeful, "he's so _cute."_

Malia's chains clank as she grits out a thunderous growl behind him, and, okay, look. Everyone is suddenly leagues taller than him, his body and all its' instincts are different, and the web of his thought is strung taut, vibrating, he can't be blamed for the sudden jump-scare propelling him into full-on running toward Derek, jumping up into the man's arms and hunkering the fuck down. Derek makes a shocked noise, but his scent brightens into light, fluffy snow falling on thick mountain forests, and the moment he has Stiles in his arms he holds him close, rumbles out a soft purr-growl, tangling his fingers in Stiles' fur as Scott, Allison, and Kira all coo at how adorable he is.

Stiles, suitably mortified, tucks himself further into Derek, soaking in his scent, in the vibration of sub-vocal cadence combined with the bass-drum beat of his heart, the sift of gentle hands against his body. Calm and Derek and Home swirls, sweeps him up, until a cricket-song melody comes, loud and happy, from deep within him. Derek freezes for a second, and Stiles hears Isaac ask, in the background, "Holy shit, is he _purring?"_ Before Derek's petting him again and whatever sound his body is making regardless of his own volition doesn't fucking matter anymore because, god _damn_ , it feels _good_.

Malia being put through the works by the full moon jump-scares him about two more times, until him crawling frantically up the side of Derek's face with a trill sound in the back of his throat, instincts ringing sonic-boom loud self-preservation alarms in the back of his head, leads to Scotty, mercifully, deciding, "I think it's pretty safe to say Stiles isn't really a danger to anyone, dude. Go ahead and take him home."

The rest of the night essentially presides over Stiles bouncing around restlessly in the camaro, and then skittering and bounding around the loft, feeling electrified, like an energizer bunny, Derek wolfing out and playing with him until they both ran out of fuel, collapsed on top of each other in the middle of the floor just as dawn began painting barren trees in orangey-pink hued watercolor.

He sleeps, dreamless, vaguely serene, wakes up to Derek pressing a sweet kiss to the constellation of freckles on his bare shoulder, the scent of spices and pumpkin and coffee warming the air, riding on the tide of yesterday's satiated joy.

"Mmm, good morning."

Derek scritches just behind his still-canid ears, gentles a line of touch down his tail, and wordlessly raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles blinks, flexes fingers that end in pin-prick sharp, oil-gloss claws and sighs around tiny, fierce fangs.

"I'm guessing this is a thing we're going to have to work on, isn't it?"

Derek shrugs a nod, leans in to kiss him soundly, and suggests, "There's coffee?"

"Oh, God, yes, everything is better with coffee."

(He doesn't let Derek leave to _get_ said coffee, however, until about three hours later. Needless to say, they're both pretty grateful that the fullmoon was on a sunday.)

* * *

It takes a minute to recalibrate, to learn more control with his beta-shift and full-shift so he's not popping out ears and a tail in the middle of public. He organizes, like, twelve Pack meetings in as many days, everyone working together, because he isn't the only one struggling with this, Malia is, too, and Kira, to some extent, the rest of them, even. Lydia dragging Deaton (who's more of a recluse than he would like to let on) to a few of said meetings is actually immensely helpful, as are herbal teas (who'd've thought?). But, eventually, even that part of his life seems to settle.

"It's weird," he decides, hanging onto the edge of the cart Derek's pushing through the store, snatching random things he finds interesting from the shelves as he talks. "Like, halloween is _two days_ away, and—zilch, zip, nada on the crazy, scary monsters front. That doesn't strike you as weird?"

Derek seems to think on it for a moment before shaking his head, "Not really. There's an established, stable Pack here, and, even with an active nemeton, that's bound to give some people pause. Besides, halloween is..."

"If you're about to tell me that it's, like, some sacred, hallowed holiday for spooks, I will blow a gasket," he throws a box of graham crackers into the cart and begins assessing whether or not they have enough to make homemade candy, pie, and _food_ to feed their Pack plus whatever brave souls decide to go traipsing into the mostly abandoned creepy-ass area Derek lives in in order to go trick-or-treating. "Seriously, a whole, huge, jack-o-lantern sized gasket."

Derek smirks slightly, raises his eyebrows in an expression that says it totally is, and Stiles bursts into bright, half-relieved laughter.

"So we're, what? free-and-clear for a whole month or something? because, I'm not gonna lie, that would be kind of awesome."

Derek grins, bunny teeth and soft-fluffy beard and sparkling eyes and all, and Stiles is helpless to do anything but kiss him silly for it. "It's not absolute," Derek tries to warn in between kitten-lick pecks, "not everyone celebrates, and—" the rest is swallowed, crushed as Stiles blindly crawls over and into the cart, crouching amongst foodstuffs he tries valiantly not to squish or destroy (honestly, part of him's surprised he didn't bowl the whole thing over, but becoming a werefox has given him a surprising amount of agility, however graceless and klutzy it may be), diving deeper, enjoying the woody, chocolate-covered cherry taste of him. "Stiles," Derek murmurs against his lips, "we're in the middle of the store?"

"Mmhmm."

Derek nips at Stiles' bottom lip, pulls away nuzzlingly, pointing out, "You're _purring,"_ which they both know means his beta-shift won't be far off if he doesn't start paying attention. Stiles sighs, rearranges things so he can sit back in their cart, unashamed of his spectacle.

"I wonder if I can get away with being foxy on halloween," he pouts, and Derek stifles a snort. Stiles blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a second before he realizes and paws at him, still shaking with hindered laughter. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

Derek grazes his temple with a mirthful kiss that makes Stiles' insides turn to goo, hooks a lock of his now-jaw-length chestnut hair behind his ear, whispers, all sweetened husky, "I'm sure you'll be able to, baby."

Stiles flushes at the appellation, at the way it saturates his scent in candied rain, all sugar-mist petrichor, reaching out to tangle with Derek's mountain snow-melt. (He has a feeling this weakness is going to be used against him later, but he can't even bring himself to mind.)

* * *

Lydia decorates the loft resplendently, decks it out in cobwebs and oranges and reds, skeletons and jack-o-lanterns, as Stiles spends pretty much all of his free-time in the kitchen, and Derek tries to keep things from getting too out of hand. They all, at Stiles' pestering, end up spending the whole day in beta-shift, which freaks Chris the fuck out, and leaves Allison and Kira (and even, Stiles thinks, Deaton) utterly enamoured, Malia more comfortable than he's ever seen her, and Derek happy in a way that will never cease to make Stiles' heart skip a beat.

His dad and Scott's mom, on the other hand, as far as he can tell, are becoming desensitized. He doesn't know if he should be glad or concerned for that.

"You're worse than me," Scott tells him, after most all of the food is done cooking and has been placed in various areas around the room for ease of access while the party is in full-swing.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your ears," Scott grins, "they're always pointed toward Derek, even when you aren't looking at him."

Stiles swats his brother, brings him under his arm to noogie him, and runs away before he can retaliate. Goes to Derek with his tail flicking and his ears perked, winds an arm around his lover's and huddles up to him, for the warmth of it along with everything else.

"You alright?" Derek asks under his breath, so as not to interrupt the conversation he, Deaton, Allison, Isaac, and Lydia are having. Stiles shifts his head to nip at Derek's jaw a little, migrating to his lips for a lingering, nurturing kiss.

"Yeah," he answers, and, maybe for the first time since the nogitsune, really, honestly, _wholly_ feels it. "You?"

The smile that blooms on Derek's face, then, is nothing less than soul-shatteringly beautiful.

"Definitely."


End file.
